


cado, cadere, cecidi, casus

by oflosechesters



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Daddy Kink, Light Angst, M/M, Secret Relationship, Sweet Ending, beck is not a bad guy, gratuitous mentions of beard burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-13 20:53:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21004001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oflosechesters/pseuds/oflosechesters
Summary: And perhaps every unwritten act of teenage rebellion Peter never had has culminated in this; wrapped itself up in a bow, in blue eyes and a red sweater; in warm, wide hands and the scratch of stubble against smooth skin stretched taut over a bobbing adam’s apple, blood thrumming under the thin skin just under his jaw.But if it is a mistake, it is Peter’s to make, and the sound of the office door definitively clicking shut is the first domino to fall.





	cado, cadere, cecidi, casus

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mrmulder82](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrmulder82/gifts).

> \- for my friend bea whomst fell headfirst into this garbage can with me :')
> 
> \- also to clear things up/a bit of background! a bit of insp taken from insomniac's peter: peter is an intern with stark industries, putting him at about 23? tony never died and quentin is still an engineer for stark ind, though he is still a chaotic human disaster (not pictured) and he and stark butt heads on the reg, F.E.A.S.T. is the shelter aunt may works for, etc.
> 
> \- you can pry italian american mcu peter parker from my cold, dead hands

Initially Stark wanted to talk to Peter about how proud he was of the work he’s been doing with Dr. Octavius, but what he walked in on totally changes and sets the tone for the conversation they’re about to have, a terse, sharp, “Uh, what was _ that?” _pushing past Tony’s lips. The memory of what he’d just witnessed still pressing in at his temples, his fingers come up to soothe away the encroaching headache as he closes his eyes.

He’s met with silence – aching, mortifying silence and it somehow makes the whole thing _ worse _ because the silence might as well be a flaming red flag, the word _ guilty _stamped in big block letters to the kid’s forehead.

_ “Huh?” _ And it’s not fair, he knows, to needle and snap like this when Peter looks like he’s gone through all five stages of grief in the time it takes for Tony to snap his fingers in front of his face, trying to draw his attention, his eyes back up. “Listen, kid,” he starts, and it’s softer, at first, before the edge to his voice sharpens, something black and ugly and _ protective _ digging its claws into his chest, the nails of his own fingers like talons. “I get that you’re slick – smart, _ whatever _ – but I sure as hell wasn’t born yesterday, alright?” He’s shifting on his feet, restless, hands gesturing in a wide _ and there it is, come on, on the table _ sort of sweep before coming to clasp together, fingers laced tight in front of him. “What’s going on, what’s he done? If he’s done something—”

It’s the accusation that breaks the silence, tectonic plates cracking, shifting under their weight as Peter drags air into his lungs, snapping, _ “Nothing,” _ in the desperate way a pleading man might beg for understanding. “Nothing, Mr. Stark, he—” but the look Tony levels him with is blunt force trauma: _ unstoppable force, meet immovable object_. Peter's voice cracks with the weight of it, suddenly sixteen again, caught red handed, “That’s not _ fair— _ ” Hands flexing, the warmth of Quentin’s skin still burning like the sting behind his eyes – _ red, red, the flags are red, his eyes are red, Quentin’s sweater is red. _ His lungs catch when Tony hits him with the, “Cut the bullshit, kid,” because, _ “I’m not a kid!” _

There’s a beat.

Peter swallows, plates shifting, unsteady ground. “I’m not a kid—” he stammers, _ “— anymore, _ Tony.” And it’s naive, he knows, he _ knows, _ and maybe it’s a mistake, but it will be _ his _ to learn from. “And it’s my choice – whatever it is – _ he’s _ my choice.”

“Peter.”

“_My _choice, Tony. Not yours.”

And perhaps every unwritten act of teenage rebellion Peter never had has culminated in this; wrapped itself up in a bow, in blue eyes and a red sweater; in warm, wide hands and the scratch of stubble against smooth skin stretched taut over a bobbing adam’s apple, blood thrumming under the thin skin just under his jaw. But if it is a mistake, it is Peter’s to make, and the sound of the office door definitively clicking shut is the first domino to fall.

—

There are more dominos to come after, teetering dangerously close to their tipping point under the hands of a man with a smile so sharp Peter repeats a mantra from his childhood over and over again: _ fish are friends, not food_. Because Quentin Beck is a shark. He’s a shark and he’s devouring Peter whole, young and stupid, and Peter knows it. He’s not a fool. Quentin Beck will ruin him, and Peter, _ oh_, Peter will breathe _ thank you _ like reverence from his lips as the long, hard length of him presses in, splits him open, splits him apart. He’s _ aching_, arching off the mattress, and all he sees is red – red flags, red drapes pulled over the window reflected back at him in the mirror over the dresser when he lets his head fall to the side, bares his neck to be devoured.

He thinks it might be nice, this being ruined.

He thinks he might not mind, this feeling of sinking; leg strapped to a lead weight, wrapped around slender hips, being dragged ever downward into the open mouth of the beast. Open and hungry and wet as it drags over the column of his throat; sharp teeth wanting nothing more than to sink into pale, unmarred skin; beard prickling, scratching, leaving angry red porcelain in its wake as the rhythm of their hips rock and crest over the waves.

Red like the suit that stays buried in his duffel bag, recklessly hanging open from the hook on the door; buried deep like a secret, always a secret; like Quentin inside him, Peter’s hands gripping straining arms above him tight enough to leave angry red marks of his own; nails crescent moons like that of the pale light that cuts across the room from the slit in the drapes.

When he comes, it feels like a flood, breaking down doors; thinking _ it’s nice_, and _ I might not mind_. The thrusts come slower and softer, winding down as Quentin chases that feeling and Peter catches the furrow of his brow, reaches up to smooth a thumb over the arch of it, wiping away the dip like he might want to wipe away any worry any red flag might be warning him against — naive, he thinks.

But the way Quentin breathes, turns and nuzzles his face into Peter’s open palm to press a tender kiss to the soft skin — that is the second domino to fall.

—

It becomes a counting game. Snapshots Peter thinks he could place in a picture frame like the old kodaks tucked in envelopes in the box on the top shelf of Aunt May’s closet. _ Kodak moments, _ he remembers the commercials used to say, advertisements from a time before everything was _ digital this, digital that; _ until one night before college, in the pitch black of the last summer they had left before deadline after deadline crushed every fiber of their souls, Ned quietly admitted he had trouble reading an analog clock. Admitted it point blank to Peter’s ceiling, whispered like a confession to a priest, horrified in their delirious 3 A.M. _ past-your-bedtime _ state.  
  
“It’s like – why even bother, though? Like sure they look fancy or more professional or whatever, but the minute marks are so small – why not just pull out my phone? Like I’m wearing a watch but I’m not even using it to tell time?” 

Peter remembers agreeing just before he dozed off, remembers waking up to the flash of Aunt May’s phone, her cooing over how handsome he looked in his Empire State shirt. Remembers her asking where he got the MIT sweatshirt when he dropped by to help her out around the shelter about a month ago – tired and _ careless, _ had pulled it on without thinking on his way out of Quentin’s apartment.

“Oh, you know,” stuttered and unsure, never quite quick on his feet. He wanted to choke, faint, let the depths of hell open a portal to another realm right under his feet to swallow him whole. “Was just, uh—” _ Come on, Parker. _ “Lying around the lab. Gets cold.” _ Fuck. _

_ “Piccolo, _ just make sure you return it.”

“Yeah, May, I will.” _ Tonight. _

A snapshot, he thinks, when he feels strong arms wrap around him from behind, a chin hooked over his shoulder and nuzzling the side of his neck; the low timber of a familiar voice asking _ What’s cookin’, good lookin’? _with little shame or regard for how he presses and pins Peter’s hips against the kitchen counter; the smile ghosting just under the line of Peter’s jaw entirely too pleased with the cheesy remark; fingertips ghosting along the hem of the sweatshirt at his waist, touching simply to touch, for now. And later still when Quentin’s peeling it from his body, claimed and reclaimed again so he can drag those same fingertips down the length of Peter’s back with little shame or regard for the angry red lines he leaves.

Quentin digs his thumbs into his belly and Peter chokes, hands flying to his stomach to feint the feeling of being gutted. “Asshole.” The twinkle of humor in those blue eyes is enough to reel him back in, a finger on the tip of the domino, testing, teasing. “Quit making pasta or I’m gonna bloat up and drop into the Hudson like a lead weight.”

“Half of my recipes are pasta.”

“Lead weight, _ piccolo._” Teasing, teetering.

He thinks he can see it, Quentin’s finger on the tip, can see mischief writ in the golden flecks throughout his eyes – gold like magic simmering just under the surface, mischief like some classical myth, like a trickster. But Peter can’t see past the warmth of his smile, past the weight of the hands resting comfortably on his waist, caught on the curve of his hips. They crest another wave. “Sink, then.”

Quentin laughs, and Peter can’t catch his breath. “Snapshot.”

“What?”

The flick of a wrist, the third domino.

—

He finds each leads into the next, falling faster and faster with the coming days until summer is spent. He keeps counting.

_ One_. They meet and he’s _ tall_, tall enough that Peter feels his neck craning just to get a good look at him, or maybe so he doesn’t feel so small; leaning up onto the balls of his feet when they shake hands. A sudden rush of blood to the head, he meets blue eyes; _blue _ eyes, red sweater, and it’s dizzying, the strength of the grip in his hand, the roar of the waves crashing behind his eardrums, swimming behind his eyelids. _ Mr. Beck, _ he thinks, over and over until the words are only sound, a breathless sound like the hitch of his own, lungs catching when he wraps a hand around himself in the shower that same night, recalls blue eyes. He barely registers _ Call me Quentin. _

_ Two_. A passing comment that Peter was ninety percent sure made his heart swell so much it would pour like disgustingly oozing, glittering liquid from his eyes. Or maybe he would just choke on it. Drinks with coworkers at the end of the week, there’s a bar not far from here, they’d said. Theoretical discussions over one, no two, no _ three _ pints of, _ “Something sweet for the kid,” _he’d said, stepping up from behind, he hadn’t walked over with them.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Like so many things to come, like secrets, like being slammed up against a closed elevator door so late the entire floor of the lab had been nothing but hollow bones, like a sinking feeling, Quentin sinking to his knees, like the scratch of a thick beard between the milk white soft skin of his thighs.

Theoretical discussions leading to tangential asides, multifaceted multitudes of _ what ifs_. Open staring. Staring into the depths of the third glass like if he stares _ hard _ enough the rim will open wide and he’ll be sucked in through the portal like vacuous space. A heavy gaze from across the table, “Peter.”

A beat.

_ “Don’t ever apologize for being the smartest one in the room.” _

_ Three. _ Fingers inside him, prodding, curling, coaxing as Quentin milks Peter’s prostate in the backseat of his Lexus in the parking garage behind the lab; Peter’s quiet moans silent prayers that the level is empty, Quentin’s peppered kisses reassurance that this isn’t the worst New York City’s ever seen. Peter’s fingers fan out and curl over his belly, back arching from the seat – either to melt into this heat between them or to escape the hard curves of leather digging into the taut lines of his back – but _ Daddy _ said not to touch. He’s not allowed to touch. So he doesn’t, and he’s rewarded with Quentin’s lips wrapping around the tip of his cock and sucking hard just before he comes, and this isn’t cresting, this is crashing.

_ Four_. They fall into it fast, this vague gesture and _ Whatever this is _ between them, because neither of them are foolish enough to think it’s just sex, but neither of them brave enough to say that out loud. “We can’t talk about it,” comes to Peter like they’re speaking underwater, tremulous and slow. _ Don’t mention it, _ scratch record, repeat. “I hope you understand.” And Peter does, he thinks. Fucking the intern fifteen years your junior and two floors down wouldn’t look so good on a sterling record, let alone on a record rife with strenuous tension between the two – Quentin and Mr. Stark. But sooner or later something’s gonna give, and the threat looms over them like dark, dark clouds even on their sunniest days.

_ Five. _A staff party, the red sweater, a storage closet where cameras can’t follow the curve of Peter’s throat as he drops his head back and moans, legs hooked over broad shoulders; only able to hold their position so easily because he’s gripping the shelves on either side of him, wood digging into his back, wingspan wide and he’s – thankfully and unbeknownst to the man between his thighs – got a very sticky grip. Quentin’s tongue presses inside him and Peter is ninety percent sure his soul leaves his body on a high, fluttering moan, hands flexing, grip so tight his knuckles are white, aching to grip Quentin’s hair. 

A dull, distant _ click _ of the door outside the room and Peter’s heart shoots up into his throat so high he’s going to vomit, knots in his stomach pulling so tight his whole body goes rigid with fear. Quentin doesn’t hear anything until the footsteps, until they’re crossing to the closet, drawing ever closer, and Peter’s thighs slip from his shoulders. Peter’s back slides down the wall of shelves and he’s caught, cradled in Quentin’s lap. He presses a finger to Peter’s lips, unaware that the rabbiting of his heart wouldn’t allow him to make a sound even should we wish to, before wrapping his arms around his waist, holding him close. The warm puffs of breath in the crook of his neck would be comforting if not for the given circumstances. 

The handle just above them jimmies, the turn of the knob agonizingly slow.

Peter is startled out of his stupor with a loud _ bang: _ Quentin’s open palm smacked against the door, followed by a low, wanton _ moan _ teetering on the edge of theatrical. It takes a moment for his mind to unstick, the hand Quentin isn’t using to make as much noise as possible gesturing to coax Peter into doing the same until he’s, “Oh, _ fuck, _ baby, _ yeah_—” Pitched high and breathy, desperately trying not to sound like himself and almost failing to keep his laughter at the edges.

They hear keys clatter and clang on the floor, but it isn’t until that _ click _ of the door that they devolve into breathless laughter. Wrapped up in one another, sat on the floor, Peter can feel three words pressing in on his temple as Quentin presses his lips there, catches his breath. Dark lashes falling over doe eyes, strong arms holding just that bit tighter. There’s silence.

“God, you’re incredible.”

Three words, three words, three words.

Don’t mention it. 

_ Six. _The sound of the office door definitively clicking shut.

_ Seven. _The scratch of stubble. A tender kiss to the soft skin of an open palm.

_ Eight. _ Quentin laughs, and Peter can’t catch his breath. 

_ Nine. _ He doesn’t really know if he knows. That Tony knows. A sacred vow broken, ripped from under Peter’s feet, he thinks, _ We can’t talk about it_. But he did, and sitting in the passenger seat a block down from F.E.A.S.T., he thinks, _ why? _ Why can’t they talk about it? Why can’t he be dropped off where people might see? The present for May’s birthday is heavy in his lap and the tag doesn’t have a name and he said it would be fine but suddenly it feels like his throat is closing.

“Peter?” It’s tentative, careful in a way that suggests either tenderness or a fear that Peter is a ticking time bomb about to go off. Possibly both. But his throat is closing, and suddenly it’s hard to breathe; air ragged as it’s dragged past his throat and into his lungs, a fierce sting behind his eyes with the strain of it. The flush that blossoms from under his collar is riddled with mortification and Quentin is immediately attentive, cutting the engine and twisting in his seat. “Honey, hey—” and he’s reaching.

“No.” Like his voice is being dragged over hot coals and then some sharp gravel for good fun. “No, I’m sorry—” Lungs constricting, his chest is _tight,_ and he realizes the red flush of his cheeks is angry. Angry with Quentin, angry with their situation, angry with himself. Red like the drapes that cloak them in shadows, hide what they do in the dark away from the rest of the world, like the way Quentin’s hands feel hot on his skin – _searing _like a brand, like cauterizing Peter’s every open wound when he slips in through the window, body feeling freshly broken despite every bruise fading fast – is something to be ashamed of. But he’s not, and the tears track hot down his cheeks, fall and muddy the paper of May’s present in his lap even as he desperately tries to wipe them from his face, fist balled up in his sleeve. An MIT sweatshirt.

He feels the scratch of stubble against his brow, the puff of warm air ghosting over his hair. _ Three words. Please, I need— _

“It’ll be okay,” barely a whisper against his temple, the ghost of feeling, the wish for something more.

Peter sniffles, sleeves wet. “Thanks.”

Quentin’s thumb brushes over the line of his jaw, drags over the swell of his bottom lip. “Don’t mention it.”

_ Ten. _ He walks into the party alone.

—

There’s strain, in his relationships. Not that there ever hasn't been, red suits and web shooters having put him in many sticky situations over the years, pun intended. But it gets harder, between the vigilantism and the secrets. He rarely falls asleep in his own bed — a shitty mattress on a broken box spring in Chinatown, cracks in the walls, cracks in the windows, this internship doesn’t pay much and he refused to accept Tony’s help, back when they were writing up the contract. Nepotism, he called it. Favoritism. Most people commute from Jersey.

“Call it whatever ism you want, you’re not gonna be able to stay in Queens on this, kid.” The pen tapping on the desk, restless and impatient – worried, always worried, Peter could see it in the dip of his brow, the lines of his mouth. The last tap sharper than the rest before the pen is in Peter’s face like an accusation. “You’re worse than me, you know that?”

“Mr. Stark?”

“Stubborn.” By the time they finished hammering out the numbers, Peter still made more than half the interns in the lab.

The lab that was mostly empty now, save for the hollow echo of footsteps, slow and careful as they went, pacing. Peter only sees the slow creep of a lioness through the savannah. He’s shoving his notes into his duffel as quickly as he can, catching a glimpse of red at the bottom of the bag as he rearranges his things to fit it all.

“Peter.”

If he keeps his head down the moment will pass, he knows it will, despite the fine tremor of his hands, Tony’s terse huff of breath pushed out with immense effort at self control. _ “Mr. Parker.” _

Peter’s jaw ticks.

“Listen, kid, we have to talk about this,” pressing from his space just across two, no _ three _ lab tables, hip cocked and resting against its edge. His arms are folded which means Peter’s not going to get anywhere, and the sound of a zipper sliding shut fills the space between them. “I’m not gonna apologize.” Frustration seeps from every crack of his veneer. A stuttered afterthought at deference as he finally looks up, “Mr. Stark,” slinging his bag over squared shoulders.

“I’m not asking you to apologize.”

“Then what are you asking me?” The tilt of his chin is defiant, so defiant, and it never used to be like this, he never used to feel so caged.

“To be _ careful_, Peter, _ Christ_.” Oh.

A pause.

“Does May know?” 

And the line of Peter’s lips is pressed thin because it doesn’t feel like it’s any of Tony’s business, the way he’s prying and pulling at all of Peter’s seams, not when he already feels bruised. But Tony stands, foot tapping, expectant and so diametrically opposed to Peter in that moment that Peter wants nothing more than to scream, to push and shove his way past him and out the door. “Well?”

A breath. “No,” swallowing, “she doesn’t.”

—

It’s not that Peter doesn’t want to tell her. The idea presses at the back of his mind each time three words burn on the tip of his tongue, branding Quentin’s skin. In the aftermath, Peter wonders if this is what Catholic guilt would feel like, had they ever really gone to church. Every time his phone _ pings – _ lighting up the darkened room with its gentle glow and a message from _ Q – _during movie night and he scrambles to flip the screen facedown on the table driving that point just a little further home, truly slamming it with little to no grace. God, he hopes he didn’t crack the screen again.

“Piccolo, what was that?” 

“Just my phone, sorry I—” And this something she’s used to, at least. “— forgot to put it on silent, sorry.”

“Oh, well tell Ned and MJ I get you at least _ one _ night of the week.”

“Sì, zizi.” He burrows further into the warmth of the now officially absconded MIT sweatshirt, arms wrapping ever tighter around himself; legs tangled up in two, no _ three _ quilts, fuzzy socked feet peeking out from the bottom, toes wiggling. He resolutely decides _ not _ to look at his phone, or even so much as think about what Quentin could _ possibly _ want at 9 P.M. on a Tuesday night. He doesn’t want to know. It’s movie night with May, Quentin knows that. He doesn’t want to know and that’s that.

Except that’s not that, and his mind is whirring with all the worst possible _ what ifs _ because Quentin _ does _ know it’s movie night, so why would he text and Peter is absolutely _ aching _ to look, just a peek, barely even a glance.

He waits until May has retreated to the kitchen to pop a fresh bag of popcorn before he reaches over, fingers careful as he slowly tilts his phone back up, just to have a little look.

Fuck.

He doesn’t have previews turned on.

—

Later when he’s curled up in bed, feeling too big for his childhood home, he slides his finger over the notification simply reading _ Q, _ and unlocks his phone. It’s a photo of his duffel bag hanging from its usual hook and Peter’s heart stops, eyes immediately drawn to the sliver of red fabric peeking through the rip in the seam where the body meets the pocket. The text message only reads: 

** _?_ **

And Peter’s fingers can’t tap fast enough, panic rising in his throat like bile, doesn’t know what to do, what to say, no matter how many times this has happened. Just three words.

_ I can explain. _

He waits. He waits to see the bubble, to see three little dots all flashing in a row at the bottom of his screen. He waits, but nothing comes, and neither does sleep that night.

But the morning comes, grey and dreary, with a new message. Peter is bleary eyed and exhausted, but it doesn’t stop his heart from thudding in his chest, doesn’t stop his reflexes from snatching his phone from his nightstand like lightning only to read:

** _I’ll buy you a new one._ **

And there’s no comfort to be found there, Peter realizes over breakfast, reading the text over and over and over again in his mind’s eye. It’s not an accusation, no, and it is a promise, yes, but it doesn’t lessen his anxiety, doesn’t tell him if Quentin saw it. The red flag. 

May calls him distracted. Peter hums.

He skips class to catch the train.

—

He knew this wouldn’t be easy, nothing about them is easy, but Peter never thought he’d be so scared to knock on a damn door. As if Quentin hadn’t given him a key nearly two months ago. And told him about the spare key hidden in the potted plant by the door, currently at Peter’s feet. Still, he thinks a knock is more appropriate given the current circumstance and, admittedly, Peter’s own anxiety.

He waits. He waits and waits until he’s knocking _ one, two, _ no _ three; _ waits until his foot is _ tap tap tapping _ as if he could exude all his nervous energy with one steady beat as juxtaposed to the wild hammering of his heart. He waits until he just can’t take it and he is _ banging _ on the door _ one, two, three _ slams of an open palm because he can’t understand why Quentin wouldn’t answer – or, potentially more accurately, because he _ can_.

“Quentin, for _ fuck’s _ sake, let me in,” a desperate plea pressed against dark wood.

“Uh,” the rustle of plastic behind him, the sound of a leather briefcase gingerly being set on the concrete floor, and Peter is nearly jumping out of his skin, startled, whipping around to face him. “Give me a minute to pull out my keys?”

“Oh.” He spots the adidas logo and thinks _ I’m going to throw up. _ “Is that—?” He gives a vague, weak gesture of his hand to the disgustingly orange plastic bag hooked on Quentin’s arm.

“Your new duffel?”

Peter nods, hears the tinny jingle of Quentin’s keys being pulled from his coat pocket.

“Yeah.” The slot of the door unlocking, rattling turn of the handle, Quentin bends to pick up his briefcase and presses past Peter to walk into the apartment. Peter hesitates before, “You just gonna freeze out there, or...?” and he walks in, gently clicks the door shut behind him.

“You gonna open it?” And the way Quentin says it, it feels like a challenge.

“Uh.” A challenge he’s not sure he’s up to, given how every single one of his organs would prefer to be outside of his body and spread around the floor at the present moment. “Yeah, sure. Thank—” Fuck, he wants to die. “Thank you.” And when he carefully takes the gift, peels the plastic away from the new duffel bag, Peter thinks _maybe that’s all this is._ _Maybe it’s just a new bag._

“They had a Spider-Man themed one, but I thought that was a bit on the nose.”

“Oh.”

Quentin cuts his gaze to the right, and Peter does the same. The red suit peeks out from the torn bottom of his old bag that now rests at the foot of the couch. Death would be kinder than the agonizing silence that stretches between them. Peter is imagining every world in every universe in all the nine realms opening their mouths wide and swallowing him whole. He suddenly doesn’t think he ever learned how to breathe, not once.

“Peter.”

His eyes shoot to Quentin, Quentin who is sighing, who is walking toward him so, _ so _ slowly. Quentin who is stopping just a hair’s breadth from him, that’s reaching up with those wide, warm hands to brush his thumbs over Peter’s cheeks, and it’s only then that he realizes the way his eyes sting, that he’s crying. “Peter, it’s _ okay.” _

He’s crying and it’s _ okay_, and the suit is momentarily forgotten, Quentin’s arms wrapping around his shoulders and holding _ tight_, so tight, and Peter thinks _ fuck _ and, _ “You scared the shit out of me,” _ choked, muffled against the warm cotton stretched over a broad shoulder. 

Quentin just hums, hands moving in slow circles over the breadth of Peter’s back, just the way Peter likes it, just the way he knows will soothe him, and Peter thinks maybe they’re even. For now. Nose snotty and smooshed in the crook of Quentin’s neck, three words tickle the tip of his tongue and he thinks one day he’s gonna gag on them.

It’s not that Peter doesn’t want to tell him.

—

It’s not all doom and gloom, despite the bitter winds of winter nipping at their heels. In fact, most days Peter thinks the only warmth his greedy hands are able to find is tucked under the crook of Quentin’s armpits, fingers like icicles. It never fails to startle an immediate reaction, the older man jerking so far from him that Peter thinks he’s going to roll right off the bed, “_Jesus_, you are a cruel, cruel mistress.”

“You love—” _ Me. _ “— it.”

Quentin heaves a sigh like his next admittance is the heaviest weight his shoulders have ever carried, a low hum, “As unfortunate as it may be—” He’s rolling back over in bed and Peter’s heart climbs higher and higher, lodging in his throat; and suddenly he’s swallowing it down thick as can be because Stark is right, he’s stubborn as a mule and the way it flutters with unfettered _ hope _ in his chest is evidence enough of that. Peter’s lashes fall shut the moment he feels Quentin press his forehead to his, feels Quentin take his hands, tuck them back under his arms, feels him shiver. The domino wobbles, unsteady, “I really think I do.”

“Yeah?” It’s barely a whisper, falling like a hush in the space between them, noses pressed, Peter is nuzzling, and he wants to kiss him. Wants to press their lips together and show tenderness Quentin’s never known, wants to say _ this is it for me; _ because the swelling of his heart and that dangerous sinking in his gut makes him scared that it _ is. _ Twenty-three and that’s it. Nothing after this will ever draw breath from his lips like prayer, nothing so desperate, nothing so _ steadfast _ and _ wanting. _

Tender, he thinks. Thinks this is how he felt for MJ at the same time he thinks everything with MJ seemed so juvenile compared to this; wonders if this will feel juvenile in five years’ time. But when he feels the soft press of Quentin’s lips against his – the tickle of a beard just under his nose, the gentle sweep of a tongue over the seam of his lips, already parting – Peter thinks _ no. No, this is it. _

Quentin pushes the final domino in the same moment he threads his fingers through Peter’s hair.

**Author's Note:**

> tell me in the comments if you'd like to see more from this verse ! this is my first fic with these two (and first fic in,,,, literal years so here we are) and i love !! them!!


End file.
